Long Stoic Poems
Long Stoic Poems. Below are the most popular long Stoic by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Stoic poems by poem length and keyword.
I Want, But Don't Need
Yes, "I Want, But Don't Need" is my waistwatcher creed
as I walk by each vending machine.
All those chocolate chips calling out to my hips,
colored Reese's in pieces - obscene!
Will willpower surmount the cholesterol count
of PayDays or some Rice Krispie Treats?
Can I even forsake the caloric intake
of LifeSavers, the smallest of sweets?
Yummy Snickers and Kit-Kats, peanut M&Ms,
with three flavors of Hostess fruit pie,
I am hoping my brain simply vetoes
the Cheetos, Doritos, and Fritos, oh my!
Dare I ponder the truth of the harm Baby Ruth
will inflict on my belly's increase?
Soon my sweet tooth will bargain with riveting jargon,
"Please buy it, I'll just eat a piece!
Then there's Hershey's and Twix, and six kinds of trail mix.
And the drinks! Pepsi, Root beer, and Coke,
Dr. Pepper, YooHoo, Orange Crush, Mt. Dew
render new resolutions a joke.
Then two hours post-lunch, there's that nice Nestle Crunch
overwhelming my stoic resolve,
And the Heath bars and Dove bars and Clark bars and Mars bars
enticing my will to dissolve.
I am one of those hoarders of nickels and quarters -
should ever the munchies catch fire.
Self-control starts to fail when those Oreos hail,
calling out to my carnal desire.
In a fog, I hear clinking of coins, with lights blinking
then eating and drinking. No sorrow!
For I just HAD to buy it, the heck with my diet -
"Whole 30" can just start tomorrow!
Of all I hear of wild Amazon lands,
Of terraces and quiet shores of Bali,
Of Rome, where past and present join their hands—
Unless both seen and known, they seem but folly.
Of Stoic, hedonist philosophies;
Tall structures rising behind scaffolding;
And emblematic, vast theosophies—
Unseen, they fall to heavy dust-gathering.
How might I feel within the quiet tomb-womb
Of Mother Earth, wrapped in the final dust?
From here, like a pure lotus, I shall bloom;
Unseen and known, how can I grow in trust?
Can soul-deep truth be reaped from glance and eye,
When boundless streams of unseen wonders sigh?
Pregnant mothers of the waters they give birth to
Took an afternoon/evening walk across the vast sky
As they slowly strolled across the once light-hued way
These once ivory-hued maidens took on a cerulean haze.
Beneath them down on the terrestrial plane
A lone stoic eagle struck a statue-like pose
Clamping his paws around a small branch
Of a skyward huge old naked walnut tree
Across the way, atop a lamp-pole, perched
A huge black hawk with its wings spread wide.
The chilled ground with fading grass was carpeted
All over with loads of brownish-hued decaying leaves
The graveyard silence that encapsulated this whole scene
Was broken by the squawking of a V-shaped flight of ducks
Soaring with waving wings across the slowly darkening way;
As evening eased in, the pregnant clouds just hung in labor.
In a cupboard, silent skeletons sleep
Where darkness holds its secrets, buried deep,
Their shape unseen, yet ever close at hand,
That any time may burst across the land.
A quiet hum, a stillness in the air,
A spectral chill, that the winds can lay bare,
But carried through wings of time, strong and true,
Mysteries that very few ever knew.
The sands of time may slowly slip away,
But the secrets stand still, through passing days,
A stark riddle, etched in darkness of night
Of journeys made, from dawn to fading light.
No whispered word, no sigh of pain or glee,
Just jumbled echoes, indistinct and free,
A testament of tall bills begotten,
Beneath the gaze of the unblinking sun.
The hollow gaze, where once bright eyes did gleam,
Now holds the fragments of a waking dream,
The cupboard`s key declared lost, with no sign,
A silent story, sincerely sublime.
The rhythm of the mind, a reflective sound,
No longer works, where wizard can be found.
Yet life's own pulse, in memory remains,
Through flowing currents, in the subtle grains.
A stoic stance before the coming storm,
A dead silence, to keep the spirit warm,
For though the surprises stink over time
Their essence rests hidden, without a chime.
At long last the cat gets out of the bag
With the dwelling changing under new flag,
Bursting open of the cupboard with force,
Revealing tons of debt burden at source.
One cannot but gaze at the skeletons
As the damage left after a cyclone
And thereafter think of ways to redress
The legated dwelling left in distress.
The simple truth is a lovely facade
May hide an interior that is flawed
And one need to think deep and wide to scan
The space before the future one can plan.
He comes so faithfully when called,
our veterinary doctor friend,
to our dear family of cows;
upon his help, we do depend.
The birthing of our calves amaze
him more than ever, and it seems
so many of us cows need help
when labor turns into extremes.
The labor process on the farm
demands assistance with some births;
with calves too large or feet come first,
we cannot pass those hefty girths.
With doctor's hands or puller tool,
to help ease out the stuck fast calf,
it's hit or miss it's born alive;
the chances surely cut in half.
How sad it is, with long delays,
some little ones will meet their death;
at last, be pulled out on the hay,
but cannot raise a single breath.
But when it works, oh what a site!
Our mama cows, right there to tend
their little ones who know their moms;
on instant bonding we depend.
Throughout it all, we cows are brave
and seem to somehow bear the pain.
Sometimes we moo, but otherwise,
are stoic, calm, endure the strain.
How blessed we are to have a vet
who helps to ease our calving plight.
No matter what, he's always there
at crack of dawn or through the night.
Sandra M. Haight
~2nd Place~
Contest: Second Chance 2
Sponsor: Eve Roper
Judged: 06/08/2016
~NA~
Contest: Back To The Barnyard
Sponsor: Matt Caliri
Judged: 03/20/2016
Where Are My Tears
A neighbor, friend and kindred spirit passed into the next after midnight.
Grief is the most difficult emotion to capture and put into a collection.
Loss for some is not remarkable. We all suffer in different ways. Some are
stoic, some find comfort in wailing, tears, sobbing into a loved one's casket.
I lost loved ones and couldn't conjure a single tear nor a heavy heart. I'm broke
is what I thought and maybe I am. I care so much for so many but my sorrow seems
to be lacking. Where is my sorrow? Where are my tears? I cried only once I can
remember. Our dog Rusty was sick and died and I wept for weeks. There were my tears.
Il mito di una statua da giardino presso il Golfo di Napoli
Ballad Written By: Catullus Propertius
--------------------------------------------
The stoic stance
she stands
in the gardens of
Dorking
a statue carved to impress
her beauty the poet
writers mystery
a story of love and regret
a sexton the sailor carry's
to the shore she bathe
beneath the sun
he wishes for the sweetness
of oranges
for which til then
he never had none.
Arancia Rossa di Sicilia
come back to Surrentio
the mermaid sings her song
Carnival of Ivrea
she greets men
the charm of a Meridians voice
Napulitano Ballads and songs
the sweetness of the
Napulitano Orange
Sweet the nights of
natural pool of
Bagni della Regina
She swam in the waters there
and became a statue
in the garden that sings
Stoic, is my demeanor
Masculine through and through
I’m as tough as the tough guys come
More manly than all of you
Emotions are for sissies
My tears had never flown
Catastrophes, I greeted with smiles
Heartbreak I’d never shown
She was all of five years old
The sweetest child I’d ever seen
To be told that she is dying of cancer
Was a diagnosis too obscene
Forty years of pent up feelings
I had learned to keep inside
Putting up a manly façade
Not even knowing what I did hide
And then the door flew open
As wide as wide could be
The dam holding back my humanity
Broke down inside of me
I shaved my head to be like her
I held her little hand
I would cry and laugh and giggle with her
Every moment that I can
Being a man doesn’t mean pretending
That your heart cannot be touched
It means being there to share your love
Helping others when life gets rough
It took a five year old, little girl
To really show me how to be a man
The courage she had to fight her fight
Proved her to be tougher than I am
I no longer hold back tears
I say, “I love you” all the time
Showing the world exactly what I feel
I no longer view as a hideous crime
I wept at her funeral
And, I’ve cried every night since
That door remains wide open
A tough guy’s recompense
I walked one day where Jesus trod
In a village along the shore
I stood upon a sloping hill
Where he preached to five thousand or more
I ventured out onto the sea
Where Peter and John plied their trade
With mine own eyes I saw the place
Where Jesus taught and disciples made
I viewed the hills panoramic
Stoic, stately, still, and compact
From this backdrop He gave meaning
To faith, hope, and love so abstract
I recalled Peter and the others
When a fierce wind they had to face
Then came Jesus on the water
Extending His hand of saving grace
I thought of how much in common,
Though it’s been two thousand years
We have with those who lived in that day
How Jesus still can calm our fears
Jesus did not consider great
Those holding power in their hand
But had respect and compassion
For the weary who worked the land.
I was there with many travelers
In their tears I discovered a clue
In each was a burdensome story
We had only told to a few
“Your Finest Hour”
pour a paint can
from isolation
a heart torn
blood spills Red
on the crushed White empty now
absorbed in the mother vein
Stop.
a tall tree, Green, waiting,
so is life and dreams
she always speaks
of a beautiful future
fresh, romantic notions
words are always running diamond Silver streams
of something always better, Golden,
Bright Blue skies -
what was lost
was stolen,
to somehow be retrieved
not now red apples rolling
down the mountain
climbed long and hard
bitter seeds,like bricks held
in an apron,
red apples scattered
rolling to an Ocean
Time.
What is worthy in the future
is worth something now;
“Look in thy glass and tell
the face thou viewest
now is the time that face
should form another”
from the broken
Tarot Tower
"...calls back the lovely
April of her prime"
thou art thy mother’s glass
and she in thee
stops at Red and reads
your painted codex, stoic
emblazoned with potent power
Silenced,
in this dark time
and proud
dear daughter,
winning the Game
in this,
your finest hour
(LadyLabyrinth / 2020)
for my daughter, Georgia
with love,
your mother.
"and now our parents are long departed
who can finish the songs they started?”
Artwork: Georgia Murcell